Eat, Memory

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I thought I would miss my family when I went off to college. I thought I would think about my father, who had been working in one of the buildings in the World Trade Center but, by some stroke of luck that I will be eternally grateful for, went to work late on September 11, 2001. I was to start as a freshman at Stanford University a week and a half after the two hijacked planes crashed into the Twin Towers. The windows in the building my father worked in were shattered, the offices inside covered in soot and ash. He was temporarily relocated to an office in New Jersey, which upped his daily commute from two hours to three and a half hours each way. Monday through Thursday, he stayed in a hotel in Jersey while my mother and brother were in Long Island, while I was in California, living my new, happy life. I thought I would think about my mother, who was a feeler and a crier, and who, my brother told me over the phone during my first week at college, had leaned against the stove and cried while making dinner because she missed me. I thought I would think about my brother, who sent me cards in the mail with drawings of us holding hands and his nine-year-old scrawl: “Hi Jenny. Dad gave me six dollars today. We all miss you. When are you coming home?”

While I did experience some adjustment anxiety and brief flashes of terror in the first few weeks of college, mostly I felt completely blissed out. I felt like I was finally getting to do the things I had waited 17 long years to do—shed my reputation as a goody-goody, a nerd without verve, and embrace the excitement of reinventing myself, the total freedom of talking to whoever I wanted, wherever I wanted, until whatever time I felt like staying up. I was 3,000 miles from home and prepared to feel homesick. I was prepared to feel lonesome. What I wasn’t prepared for was how rarely I thought about my parents, and how guilty I felt for not thinking about them more often. I wasn’t prepared for how much I loved college, how much I loved my classes and the people I met, and how I felt like I was falling in love with everyone all the time, and how, somehow, the gift of gab had been bestowed upon me, and suddenly entire sentences, punctuated impressively with semicolons and em-dashes, were just spewing out of me, endlessly.

Dim sum buns

What I did miss, though, and talked about all the time with my new college friends, was how mind-bogglingly good the food in New York was—and no, I wasn’t talking about restaurants reviewed in the Zagat guide; I was talking about the outer boroughs: the Chinese food in Flushing, the Korean barbecue places in Bayside, and the massive dim sum places in Elmhurst. Whenever someone responded with, “Oh yeah, I love General Tso’s chicken,” I would suddenly feel like I was alone in the world. Didn’t anyone understand that General Tso never existed, unless we are talking about Zuo Zongtang Tso, who was a military leader during the Qing dynasty and probably didn’t like nasty, deep-fried, weirdly sweet pieces of chicken? Didn’t anyone else at Stanford know that the greasy bullshit in Chinese fast food restaurants resembled none of the food I grew up with? I winced when I heard my peers say “Szechuan shrimp” and wanted to correct them and tell them that actually it’s pronounced Sichuan, but I didn’t, because at the time I feared being pigeonholed as the angry yellow chick who takes everything too seriously, not realizing that no one has the right to tell you how much something should or shouldn’t matter to you.

Korean BBQ starters

After going on a quest for ethnic food (sorry, I HATE the word ethnic and how it’s never used to describe books or films or food or art made by white people—or those who pass as white—but I’m gonna have to use it in this article as a shortcut to refer to anything not of European origin), I realized that all that the bikeable/public-transportation-able parts of Palo Alto had going for them was two mediocre Thai restaurants, one awful Japanese restaurant that specialized in “sake-bombs” (BARF FART), and one halfway decent Chinese place. I started to miss intensely the restaurants my parents took me and my brother to when I was in high school. I missed the Sichuan restaurant in Flushing that we went to on Saturday nights, the one on Prince Street that was down in the basement, which my father said was suitable only for family because it was so filthy in there, and when I asked why it was OK to subject his own family to that filth, he said it was because we didn’t give a damn about that stuff, and it was true. We didn’t. We would bring hand towels with us to the restaurant to wipe down the sweat that poured down the backs of our necks after eating the restaurant’s signature dish—Sichuan poached fish (shui zhu yu)—which came with Sichuan peppercorns that would numb your mouth when you bit into one.

Noodles in the basement in Flushing

Spicy burn-ya-tongue-off noodles with beef

I missed the Vietnamese restaurant on Kissena Boulevard where my mother and I would scarf down a bowl of pho—a Vietnamese-style beef soup, traditionally served with rice noodles, bean sprouts, thin slices of blank flank and tripe, and a motley assortment of herbs that my mother told me to eat because she had read somewhere that they helped with “women’s troubles,” something which, my mother made sure to remind me, I would surely experience one day to an unbearable degree. I missed arguing with my mom over a bowl of pho about her phrase women’s problems and how I was a LIBERATED PERSON and so did not need the help of medicinal herbs. I missed Tai Pan bakery on Roosevelt Avenue, where my mom would take me after a particularly harrowing orthodontist appointment, and tell me that I should pick out a cake, any cake, and I would take so long to choose that my father would come running in to see what was taking so long, and if we didn’t mind, could we wrap things up because the meter was running out, and then my mother, who I have always tried to cast as the villain in my life story, would show herself to be the hero she really is and always has been, and would ask, in Chinese, for the person behind the counter to fetch us a box so that we could have a sampler of all the cakes in the display case.

My first few months away at college, I gorged on cheeseburgers and pizzas and chicken fingers that were available day in and day out in the dining hall, sampled all the weird salad dressings my parents refused to buy me back at home, ate soft-serve ice cream with rainbow sprinkles at the end of every meal, and tried whipped cream for the first time. I went for late-night runs with my upperclassmen friends with cars to In-N-Out, immediately didn’t get what was so great about their cheeseburgers (SORRY IN-N-OUT ENTHUSIASTS, I JUST DON’T), went on even later late-night runs to get spicy chicken sandwiches with double fries and a milkshake from Jack in the Box, and when winter break came around, I flew home to New York and had my parents pick me up from the airport and drive me straight to a new Sichuan restaurant that had opened up in Flushing.

During my three weeks at home, I gorged on my favorite Chinese dishes—cold sesame jellyfish, wasabi-marinated conch, beef intestines sautéed with hot green peppers, mock chicken marinated in soy, watercress, winter melon and bone soup, Chinese porridge with preserved duck eggs, pickled mustard stems and bamboo shoots marinated in chili oil, leafy green Chinese vegetables whose names I only know in Chinese and have struggled my whole life to describe with the proper level of complete awe to my friends whose taste buds I truly pity for not having sampled their deliciousness. For three weeks I was the happy queen of my kingdom of feasts, and then it was time to go back to Stanford and its deplorable dining options. At night, I had reccurring dreams that I had been invited to a MAJOR Chinese feast, and in the dream I would stand in front of a long table covered full with all of my favorite dishes, but every time I tried to eat something, the food would miss my mouth and fall to the ground. At some point in the dream, I would attempt to dive into the table of food, hoping that something, anything, a soup dumpling, a sliver of sea cucumber, or maybe a leafy sprout, would manage to hit the corner of my mouth, and just when it seemed like I was going to get to close my mouth around a piece of garlicky seaweed, I would wake up, realize it was all a dream, and feel a giant, yawning hole open up inside of me.

This is probably my favorite article you guys have posted so far. I like the idea that food can be a gateway to such new revelations and experiences. I feel like this embodies that idea quite well. Kudos, or something.

For one, hole-in-the-wall restaurants are my life. My mom thinks I’m crazy because all my favorite restaurants are tiny places in East Los and Little Vietnam, but “high-class” places just make me feel uncomfortable.
The sheer multitude of these places is what I like about living in Los Angeles (though I’m sure it’s nothing compared to New York.) What I hate about Los Angeles is that wealth to the point of gluttony exists alongside destitute poverty, and almost no one cares. Combine that with the amount of undocumented immigrants struggling to find a place in the promised land that rejects them, and it’s absolutely miserable. People talk about gay rights and ethnic rights, and all of that is EXTREMELY important, but when you consider human rights, the core of that is that everyone has the right to be treated like a human being: with respect and equality. I hate to be all stuck up bible-quoty, but Jesus Christ said that if we all cared for one another, then there would be no poor among us. Even if you’re not Christian (I’m not really either), that still means something

Holy shit Jenny. I’m also Chinese, and god authentic Chinese food is hard to find sometimes. I’m also wary of General Tso’s Chicken and Panda Express… and all of those Americanized Chinese food. You can’t beat a Chinese New Year dinner.

I live in the SF Bay Area and I swear you just named my favorite places! I LOVE Saigon Sandwiches and Tu Lan!! You’re right, although some locations may be a little sketchy, there could be really good hole-in-the-wall restaurants! If you go back to SF please check out “Bund” in Chinatown, which has amazing Shanghainese food. Or if you’re in the Oakland area, go to Pnomh Penh, which cooks up delicious Cambodian food (my fave is the fish soup).

JENNY, JENNY, Saigon Sandwiches right across from the Phoenix holy shit balls! My boss took me there every week this summer for their banh mi after the first time she brought me a sandwich and I TEARED because I was so happy. TEARED, just like what I did reading the last paragraph because it is beautiful and home-hitting. I hope we have the chance to eat pho together someday!

WE MUST DEVOUR A BOWL OF PHO TOGETHER AND THEN TOP OFF WITH BANH MI. Your boss is amazing. You are amazing. Vietnamese food is amazing. Crying because food moves you is amazing. I have and will always cry about food! <3 <3

This was a beautiful article – I loved it. The last bit about France reminded me of how, in December/January this year, I spent 6 weeks in Paris staying with family I barely knew in a big house in order to improve my French.
What I remember most is an intense feeling of loneliness and homesickness that (sadly) took away from the joy of staying so long in a place I had dreamed of constantly.
However, one of the happiest times I spent in Paris was when I visited a Chinese supermarket with another relative. It reminded me of home (Australia) because these little havens are Australian staples, and once inside I forgot I was far away from home. I was surprised but overjoyed to find that a culture so different from my own had somehow reminded me, in the midst of a place I felt barely connected to, of how much I loved the place I came from.

“Others came back from their life-altering semester or year abroad in African or Southeast Asian or Latin American countries and talked endlessly about what they had seen and how they had been changed. I wanted everyone to come with me to this homeless shelter I spent my afternoons in and see that one didn’t need to travel thousands of miles to experience the devastating truth of the world.”

As someone currently attending a small liberal college where everyone studies abroad, can I say just say YES, THIS, SO SO MUCH.

Beautiful article, Jenny! It made me hungry and happy to be surrounded by good hole-in-the-wall restaurants that may be a little grungy, but you can tell the people who run them are passionate about the food they make and sharing it with others.

I really like this article as i find food an important part of life that has been involved in most of my happy memories.
By the way, i always have heard word ethnic when talking about Eastern Europe on Middle East or music :D I am Latvian and we sometimes call our own countries regions “ethnic”.
I like Chinese and Indian and Japanese food but i haven’t really tried much of authentic ones since here there aren’t more than 300 non Caucasians in city :)

While reading this, all I could think of was the movie Eat. Drink. Man. Woman. it perfectly potrays a Chinese family trying to cope with their own problems with a LOT of Chinese food thrown in for good measure. Also, since I’m Indian(Part Goan, part Mangalorean) I get to eat the best Indian seafood ever. Indian restaurants abroad never live up to my expectations.Thank you for this article, I’m so glad you’ve discussed your love for food here. I can totally relate to it.

Great article! I got pretty excited the moment you mentioned Queens (also all the food. also all of the beautiful things the food can do.) Now I want to go sample all the restaurants I always pass over on Roosevelt Ave and Main Street (they intimidate me because I’m not Chinese and I dont’ speak it) Maybe the next time in the food court of Flushing Mall I’ll get something other than a crepe!

this is lovely lovely lovely. i find london is just like this, the more you pay, the less anticipation you, yourself has. humane warmth you find in food is produced in the process of the cooking, the soul of the people who care about the money they earn and the quality guilds every mouthful.

That last paragraph is just so perfect. I just moved away to attend college and as I started reading this article it felt so relevant. I couldn’t help but think of when a very close friend of mine took me to all of the Chinese and Vietnamese restaurants and shops she went to as a child with her family in Orlando, and how it was such an amazing experience to see and taste all of the wonderful things there. This article summed up all of my feelings for that trip and so much of what you said is just so true and beautiful. x

Huh, I thought it was the old way of romanizing Chinese words according to the Chinese Postal Map Romanization system that was in place until after the fall of the Qing dynasty and was largely used by the West even long after the Chinese government officially started using pinyin. Like how Beijing used to be Peking, which does not correspond to a Mandarin or Cantonese pronunciation. I’ve never heard it pronounced “Szechuan” in Cantonese (or sesh-won is how I commonly hear people who don’t know how to pronounce it in Mandarin say it.) But maybe I am wrong?

Hi Jenny! Can I just say THANK YOU FOR BEING AWESOME! I always look forward to reading your articles. I’m Filipino, but Chinese by blood, so Chinese culture is a huge part of who I am. I love reading your stories because I totally GET a lot of what you say. Like how my parents got me to take a “responsible” course, which is how I find myself in engineering, though my real passion lies in art. I’ve pretty much decided to see it through. Nevertheless your stories always inspire me to freakin live my life instead of having others live it for me. So thank you <3

Also! Hole-in-the-wall restaurants are AWESOME. I live in Chinatown and some of the best Chinese food places I know here are what I like to call "indie" restaurants :) the Chinese food chains in Manila are generally pretty good, but there's something about discovering indie restos on your own that make them special, like having your own secret.

Can this please be a regular column???
Seriously, as someone who is in love with food (besides needing it to be alive and crap ) My second favorite behind actually eating the stuff is reading about other people eating it.

60% of my meal choices are based on what characters in my favorite books and tv shows are eating.

From burgers to raw oysters to spicy wontons to spaghetti to bim bim bap to falafel to saag paneer to tomato sandwiches to bigos to sea urchin to beef noodle soup. I love it all.

aaaah this article is so awesome. and I totally get what you mean by the usage of “””ethnic”””, which in my hometown of white suburbia meant pretty much anything that is not a hamburger… then again these people also thought it was such a complement to call me and anything else resembling anything asian “oriental” haha

also on a food related love, if any of you rookies find themselves in Seattle, you totally have to check out the Mon Hei bakery in Chinatown, up the street from the Gossip boba tea place. they make the best little cakes and baozi, nom

Oh my god, I love this article so much. I’m also a Chinese American from New York, and I loved being able to picture all the places you mentioned! I smiled when I saw the last picture of New World Mall because I recognized the background instantly–proof of how much time I spend there, haha.

Your writing gives me goosebumps and brings tears to my eyes, nearly every time. So beautiful, I wish I could be half the communicator you are. My family used to run a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and my mother put so much hard work and care into every meal she prepared. Even though we couldn’t afford to keep it anymore, I’m glad that she got to try it, and that her cooking still brings my family, including other Ecuadorian-american friends together.

And every dish you mentioned sounds exotically delicious ( I hope”exotic” isn’t as annoying and incorrect as “ethnic”) But I mean, it sounds so different than what I’ve ever tried, and I WANT SOME.

Personally, I have memories of eating in little dank Chinese restaurants in Chinatown, Philadelphia, with names like Ting Wong, Mai Lai Wai, etc. It’s so important to know that a chinese restaurant DOES NOT sell you fried chicken, general tso chicken, and baby back ribs thrown together with pork fried rice. My parents were very adamant about recognizing what genuine culture is by taking us to authentic restaurants (Once, I took them to Applebees and they effing hate it). So I think I can visualize what your saying, for what it’s worth.